


we like to move like we both don't need this.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Character Study, Coda, Complicated Relationships, I don't really know what this is, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm not running away again,” Peter says against his throat, his blunt teeth scraping over skin he's already bruised and scratched.  “I'm not leaving <i>you</i> again, Roman, gonna be here as long as you need me-”</p>
<p>“Then you aren't ever fucking going anywhere,” Roman says, surging upwards and switching their positions, knocking Peter over onto his back.  It's the closest he thinks he'll ever get to saying <i>I love you, goddamn it, I don't fucking know why</i>.</p>
<p>or, Roman & Peter in the wee morning hours after the White Tower and Miranda and Nadia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we like to move like we both don't need this.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still attempting to work through my feelings about season 2 in its entirety. somewhere along the line, this piece popped out, almost stream of consciousness style. still don't know if I really like it but I just needed to write about these two and their fucked up relationship again.
> 
> title taken from the song [Professional Griefers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJelsOHe6xk) by deadmau5 featuring Gerard Way.

On the roof of the White Tower, the wind tears like claws. Roman can feel it cutting at his cheeks, can see it tousling Destiny and Peter's hair out of the corner of his eye and even though it feels like one wayward gust is all it would take to send him toppling over the edge, he takes another step forward, eyes alternating between the black sky above and the ground below, frosted with new snow. 

He doesn't know how long it's been since Miranda and Nadia disappeared into the sky with that... that _thing_ , that fucking creature who'd been his doctor once upon a time. Maybe it's been seconds, but it could have been hours ago. He really doesn't know. 

He takes one more step and sees that far, far below, there's someone standing in the parking lot, a tiny black shape against the snow. Roman knows it's his mother. She's probably staring back up at him and her hands are probably still coated in his uncle's 

(his _father's_ ) 

blood. There's probably still bits of his heart stuck underneath her long fingernails. 

Roman knows he should want to kill her. He should want to rend her limb from limb, should want to rip more than her tongue out of her body. But there's nothing in his chest except a giant void. Too much has happened over the past few weeks, way too much for him to handle all at once and rather than being filled with rage and despair, there's simply nothing. 

But still. The edge of the roof looks more and more attractive with each passing second. 

Before he can take another step forward, there's a hand closing around his bicep, yanking him away. He can hear Peter talking behind him, his voice almost drowned out by the gusting wind. 

“ _Roman_ ,” he says and his tone is almost identical to the one he'd used when he'd been standing at the foot of Roman's stairs, tail between his legs, begging him to help his mother. Roman blinks and lets himself be pulled back, towards the still-open door leading back downstairs, Peter's strong fingers gripping him on one side, Destiny's slimmer hand holding him on the other. 

The trip back down the stairs seems to take forever and somewhere along the line, Roman starts silently sobbing. His vision is blurry and he can feel tears dripping off his nose and his chin. But he doesn't make a sound; his throat feels like it's closed shut and it's all he can do to keep breathing. 

Destiny and Peter don't let go of him until they make it to the subbasement where Shelley is back under observation. Pryce is standing outside her door like he's holding a vigil, the cuffs of his suit spattered with blood and the instant he opens his mouth to speak, Peter growls from deep in his throat. Pryce looks remarkably unaffected but he does let them by and Roman shoves at the door, nearly stumbling in his haste to get over to Shelley's bed and sit on the edge. 

He'd been terrified, so terrified that he'd have to explain to her what had happened, to tell her the truth about Olivia and break her heart. But (and Roman thinks he might be going to hell for feeling this way), thankfully, she's still asleep, knocked out from whatever sedative Pryce had given her. Her shapeless white scrubs are covered in blood and there's some flecked against her ghostly pale skin. Roman scratches at a fleck of it and he thinks (or maybe he hopes) that he can see a little flicker of blue light come into life underneath her cheek. 

The bed dips slightly beside him and even without looking, he can tell it's Peter. They're pressed together from hip to shoulder and it's what Roman wants, what he _needs_ right now so, without releasing his grip on Shelley's bandaged hand, he tries to press even closer, until there's not even air between them. Destiny settles herself on the other side of the bed and they stay like that, silent and unmoving, waiting for Shelley to stir, Roman's stomach churning the entire time, trying to think of how to tell his beautiful sister that their mother is a complete monster. 

It's going to break her heart. Roman doesn't know how much more she can take.

&.

He doesn't know he's fallen asleep until he wakes up to Pryce shaking him. There's an awful kink in his neck and a heavy weight against his shoulder, where Peter's head has been leaning for lord knows how long. Roman's cheeks are crusted with old tears and when he sucks in a breath, his throat feels like it's shrunk to the size of a pinhole. 

“Roman, go home,” Pryce says, glancing over at where Shelley is still silent. According to the monitors around them, her vitals haven't changed. 

“No,” Roman croaks, his hand tightening around Shelley's fingers. “I can't. I need to stay with her.” 

“I'll let you know as soon as she wakes up,” Pryce says, tone the closest he can possibly get to soothing. “Go home, Roman.” 

For possibly the first time in his life, Roman obeys him without a word of backtalk.

&.

They stop by the house, but they don't stay. 

For a few seconds after they step through the door, Roman thinks that it'll be alright; that they'll be able to make it through the night there. The void in his chest seems to be staying strong, keeping him from thinking of anything in emotional terms. 

But once Destiny pulls the door shut behind them, the void implodes and everything hits him at once. 

It's too _much._ The smell of bleach is strong enough to feel like it's burning his nostrils, but it still isn't enough to disguise the smell of blood and gunpowder. It seems to be soaked into every grain of the wood floors and every inch of the walls. One of Miranda's scarves is lying on the stairs, carelessly discarded alongside one of Nadia's tiny socks. There's still splintered wood everywhere from the attack and it's too much, there's too many memories and Roman can't do it. He lurches towards the door, swipes at the handle with damp fingers and stumbles back out into the black night and soft snow. 

He makes it maybe three steps before he drops to his knees and brings up the meager contents of his stomach. It makes agony spread through his already raw throat, but that doesn't stop him from screaming once he's done throwing up. He tilts his head back towards the sky and screams because it isn't fucking _fair._ It's a childish refrain, he knows that, but he doesn't care. Being a father had never been in his lifeplan, _never_ , not until Nadia and now, just when he's started to get used to the idea of having a child, of being an actual _dad_ , she's gone. 

He's poison. He has to be. It's the only way to explain why everyone he loves is ripped from his life. 

“Not everyone.” 

What leaves Roman's mouth is more of a groan than a discernible word. He thinks his throat is bleeding. He drops his gaze from the sky to find Destiny standing in front of him, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. 

“Shelley. She came back,” she says quietly. “And there's...” She trails off and her eyes flicker over to the door. Peter has a Costco sized grocery bag in his hand, overflowing with Roman's clothing and for the briefest of moments, Roman wants to snap _they're going to be all wrinkled._

He bites his tongue because who the fuck _cares?_

“I just grabbed a bunch of stuff from the laundry room,” Peter mutters, pulling the door shut behind him. “I couldn't go upstairs. I can't... fuck.” He viciously wipes at his eyes and when he steps closer, Roman sees that they're horribly red. 

“You two are staying with me tonight. Tomorrow, however long you need to. We'll make it work.” Destiny takes the bag from Peter and the instant his hands are free, one drops to Roman's shoulder, like it's the only thing holding him up. Even through Roman's coat, it's burning hot, a pinpoint of warmth that he can focus on and without thinking, he reaches and puts his own hand (the one he didn't use to wipe his mouth off) on top of it. It doesn't get rid of the block sitting on his chest but it helps. It gives him something to zero in on, like a tiny ball of light at the end of the tunnel. 

“C'mon Roman,” Peter says and Roman can hear the waver in his voice, how close it is to cracking. It's that detail that spurs him into moving. He stumbles to his feet, loses his balance, spits a mouthful of saliva and blood into the pristine snow. He doesn't trust himself to talk so he simply nods. Peter's hand drops from his shoulder once he's completely on his feet but when Roman gropes out again, it's easy enough to find. 

_God Peter, please don't let go right now, I need you_ is what is in Roman's mind, just sitting beneath the surface. But even if his throat wasn't burning with pain, he knows he couldn't say that, not without fucking it up, because heart-felt shit, actual emotions? That's the kind of stuff he has always been afraid of, the stuff he has always run away from and even now, he knows his self-destructive tendencies will come to the surface and _make_ him fuck it up. 

He can't do that. Peter can't leave him again, he _can't_. 

So he simply holds Peter's hand harder than he's ever held anything, holds it so he can stay here, on Earth, and the entire way back to Destiny's, crammed into the back seat, Peter holds back just as tight. 

&.

There's already a light on in the apartment when they stumble in, clothes wet from the still-falling snow. Destiny's boyfriend (whose name Roman really can't fucking remember) is sitting on the couch, bare-chested underneath a leather jacket. As soon as he catches sight of Destiny, he drops his beer and leaps to his feet. He asks her something in Romani and his eyes flick towards Roman and Peter. Destiny hisses a response back at him and kisses him before he can say anything else, for which Roman is immensely glad. 

Even though his craving for blood has diminished, if the guy started asking too many questions, Roman would tear the guy's throat out just for the fucking silence it would bring. 

“The bed is yours if you want,” Peter says in a voice absolutely ravaged by exhaustion. “I... I can take the couch.” 

“ _No._ ” It comes out harsher than Roman intended it to, more like a command than a request, but he means it all the same. He looks directly into Peter's dark eyes, still loosely holding his hand and does what they used to be so good at doing; he tells Peter everything without saying a single fucking word. 

_It feels like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff and you're the only one holding me there and I just need to be around you, need to know that you're here and you won't leave, that we're going to do this together, Peter, like we used to do everything, I need you._

It's only after he feels his windburned lips closing that Roman realizes he's said the last part aloud. Peter just keeps staring at him and when he swallows hard and nods, Roman can see his response as clearly as if he'd written it out.

_I'm not going anywhere, Roman. Not this time._

“Alright,” Peter says after they've broken eye contact, shrugging his jacket off onto the nearest chair. “I'll put your bag in my room.” He kicks his boots off and disappears behind the frosted glass door of his bedroom, snowflakes still melting in his too-long hair. Roman peels off his wet coat and shoes, gets them as close to the radiator as he can without them being a fire risk and when he looks up, Destiny and her boyfriend have taken a break from kissing and are both looking at him. After a few seconds, she nods at him and her lips turn up just the slightest. 

It's an expression of permission that Roman doesn't think he really needed, but that he appreciates anyways. 

He steals the beer that Destiny's boyfriend abandoned on his way by; he needs something to get the taste of blood and puke out of his mouth. The beer's cheap and kind of warm but it does the trick and when he's drained it, he follows in Peter's footsteps.

It's the first time he's been in Peter's new bedroom. It's only a little bigger than the one in the trailer and nearly as empty of possessions. The only real personal touches to it are a heap of Peter's clothing on the floor and a picture of him and his mom on the bedside table. It's in a frame that Roman is pretty sure came from the convenience store around the corner, but the glass front has no fingerprints on it and there isn't a speck of dust on the frame itself. It's definitely the cleanest thing in the room and Roman can't help but smile a bit. 

He misses Lynda. It would be nice to have her around right now. 

Once he's surveyed the room, Roman pulls the door shut and just like that, they're completely shut off from the world. Peter is sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, unbuttoning his shirt and Roman follows his lead.

They don't speak while they undress. Peter finishes first; he kicks his jeans towards the radiator on the wall and hunches over slightly, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The black _g_ tattooed on his side stands out starkly against his skin. Roman hadn't noticed the other night, when Miranda had been in between them but now, it's clear as day. Peter's gotten paler, gotten skinnier. Roman can see the lines of his ribs and he only realizes he's running his fingers over them when Peter shudders, sucking in a harsh breath. 

“How much of this is from the vargulf?” Roman asks, his voice still little more than a croak. He lets his hand drop back into his lap, covered by boxers that he's sure cost more than the rent on Destiny's apartment. 

“Not all of it.” Peter leaves it at that; he gets to his feet again, bones too close to the surface of his skin, and turns off the light. The bed sags and creaks as he lays down and after a moment, Roman does the same. The blankets are kind of scratchy and the pillow underneath his head is flat as fuck, but none of that matters. What matters is Peter, whose body heat seems to be warming the entire room and wriggling its way under Roman's skin. 

“Roman.” When Peter lays a hand on his arm, it feels like a brand. Roman turns his head and there's enough light coming in from the living room for him to see Peter fairly well. His eyes seem to be glowing a little bit, like the wolf is just barely hiding behind them, ready to come out and rend flesh from bone. 

“We're going to find her. Nadia. We're going to find her and if _anyone_ gets in our way, anyone, even if it's... Miranda... I'll kill them. With my bare hands if I have to.” 

“My mother... _Olivia_ won't be that easy to kill,” Roman says and a flash flood of hatred for the woman surges through his veins. “That fucking bitch won't go down so easily.” One moment, he's gone back to looking up at the stark darkness of the ceiling; the next moment, after he blinks, Peter is on top of him, hands pressed into the sheets on either side of Roman's shoulders. 

“I'll rip her throat out, Roman,” he growls. If it was anyone else saying it, Roman would dismiss it as harmless bluster, as the kind of boasts that come from all teenage boys. But this is _Peter_ and his voice is thick with the wolf and Roman knows he means it like the most solemn oath.

“It'd kill you,” he responds, one hand reaching out and splaying over where he thinks the _g_ is on Peter's side. “If you turn on the wrong moon again, I don't know if I'll be able to bring you back.” 

“It'd be worth it.” 

Roman wants to scream again. He wants Olivia dead, wants it more than almost anything but that isn't worth Peter dying. It isn't worth it if it means he'll have to put his best friend down like a rabid beast. 

But he can't bring himself to say that. 

So instead, he growls back, “well, you'll have to get in line. Because I'm going to tear her fucking heart out.” His hand tightens on Peter's ribs, so deceptively fragile beneath his fingers and when their mouths collide together, Roman thinks he could sigh with relief. 

This is _so_ much easier than talking. 

It's way different from their first time. For starters, that hadn't really been about them (about _us_ Roman says to himself). With Miranda there, it had all been pretty damn amazing physically but emotionally, it hadn't solved anything between him and Peter. If anything, it had only made things murkier. 

But this. This is different. 

The taste of Peter's mouth is like the forest but primal, tainted with rust and blood. It's like heaven for the upir part of him, for _all_ of him and he flips them over, pinning Peter to the bed, kissing him until his mouth feels numb.

Even with fangs and claws put away, it's still a whirlwind of biting and scratching. It's rough, probably rougher than it has any right to be and Roman can feel nail marks on his back, stinging with every movement he makes. The rawness in his throat has alleviated a bit, quenched by the trickles of Peter's blood that he's licked up from his mouth and his shoulders. They have matching sets of bruises around their wrists and on their throats and Roman no longer feels like he's in any danger of simply losing his grip on the earth. He feels weighted down again, like something is holding him fast and he thinks he might have said that with his mouth as well as his mind because Peter moans his name like a promise, like no one has _ever_ said his name before. 

“I'm not running away again,” Peter says against his throat, his blunt teeth scraping over skin he's already bruised and scratched. “I'm not leaving _you_ again, Roman, gonna be here as long as you need me-”

“Then you aren't ever fucking going anywhere,” Roman says, surging upwards and switching their positions, knocking Peter over onto his back. It's the closest he thinks he'll ever get to saying _I love you, goddamn it, I don't fucking know why_. 

He might be wrong, but the fact that Peter lets Roman drag his teeth along his neck, over his throbbing jugular and doesn't seem afraid that he might tear it out? Roman thinks it might be Peter's way of saying the same thing. 

Maybe.

&.

When all is said and done, Roman is sweaty and sore from head to toe. But it's just physical pain and that's better than what he'd felt earlier at the house, like someone had reached into his soul and mangled it. This is the kind of pain he more than welcomes, that he's always been used to. 

Peter pulls a pack of smokes out of his bedside table, lights up one and passes it to Roman before he even takes a drag. Roman takes a moment to concentrate and breathes out a smoke ring before he passes it back, watching as the ring drifts toward the ceiling and disappears into the dark. 

“Shee-it. Should have done that sooner,” Peter says softly, his shoulders pressed against Roman's and before he can help himself, even though it feels wrong even to _think_ about doing it, Roman starts laughing. Once he starts laughing, he can't stop; he throws his head back and laughs until he's shaking and somewhere along the way, Peter joins in and oh God, it's been so damn long since Roman heard Peter sound so happy. 

By the time he finally manages to stop, tears are coursing down his face, so different from the ones that had been crusted on his cheeks at Shelley's bedside. His ribs ache and his throat feels shredded again and when he takes another drag from Peter's cigarette, the damn thing is nearly burned out. 

“Shee-it,” he groans and he falls asleep with his boxers still on the floor and Peter's marks stinging all over his body.

&.

When he wakes up, he has a few precious seconds where everything seems normal, like the universe has come back to a balance. He can smell food and hear low voices just outside the bedroom door and beside him, Peter is asleep, his tangled hair in his face, the blanket draped loosely over his waist. None of the marks and scratches on his chest are from the _vargulf's_ influence; they're all from Roman, straight from his teeth and nails and personally, he thinks he's looking at a masterpiece. 

And then it all comes rushing back. 

Nadia. Miranda. Norman, his mother, his fucking _doctor_. He remembers why the ledge of the White Tower had looked so damn appealing, why his throat feels eviscerated and he feels _weak_. He feels fucking terrified and it's too much to handle and- 

Peter's eyes flick open. They're still clouded with sleep but his hand gropes out and smacks onto Roman's shoulder _hard_ , hard enough to jolt him out of the fog of terror and agony he'd been rapidly descending into. 

“Roman,” he says, voice heavy as an anchor, “we're gonna find her. We're gonna bring her home.” 

_Home._ Roman's never had one of those before, not really. But he can almost feel it in his grasp.

They're going to find her. Maybe it's the last dregs of teenage naivety inside of him, but he can feel it. They'll find Nadia and bring her home and rinse the blood off their hands (Olivia's and the doctor's and even Miranda's, maybe), and things will be okay. Roman feels it, _knows_ it in his bones. 

Him and Peter and Nadia. That'll be home. 

“Yeah,” he says and lays his hand over Peter's for that last bit of stability he needs. “We'll bring her back home. Together.” 

It's a word that should feel completely foreign, alien, on his tongue. But the only thing it feels is _right_. 

That scares Roman too. But it's a fear he thinks he'll be able to conquer.

**Author's Note:**

> can season three just be these two being (mostly) happy together? that would be great.
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
